


The Big Spoon

by GizmoTrinket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Always1895, Bisexual John Watson, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sherlock, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Matchmaker Mike Stamford, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 18:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: Sherlock's back from the dead. John has another chance to confess his love but he just... doesn't. They go back to being flatmates and everything is fine. It's all fine, John thinks. Until a blond stranger shows up and makes John actually think.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour) started a monthly writing challenge #Always1895 on Twitter. Since I was the inspiration for June's theme: cuddling, I had to participate. It's a good thing I did, it got me over my writer's block so my other fics will be updating soon. You can find the other entries for the challenge by searching the tag Always1895  
>  Huge thank you to [Zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia) for betaing. I made a few changes after so any mistakes are my own.  
> Fair warning: when I write fluff it is suuuuuper cheesy.

“I know you said you didn’t want a relationship, but, please, Sherlock,” the stranger begged as Sherlock tried to chivvy the man out of the flat.

John watched the interaction with an open mouth. He was stunned, but not so much that he didn’t follow the scene as it moved downstairs and to the front step.

“What we have is amazing. I want more. We’d be so good together. I don’t care about the press. I’m ready to come out,” the man said as Sherlock shoved him out and slammed the door in his face.

A few seconds later Sherlock’s phone started pinging with text messages, and without pause started ringing. Sherlock stabbed the screen until it was silent.

“So, what was that about?” John asked.

Sherlock stared at him incredulously before retreating to his room.

John stared at the closed door before peeking out the window. The man was still there, pacing on the pavement. He was about thirty, blond, tall and gorgeous. John frowned at him when he walked back to the door.

Wanting to warn Mrs Hudson in case the man was dangerous, John went down the stairs. He could hear fists pounding on the door and Mrs Hudson’s doorbell ringing repeatedly. John imagined the other bell would be ringing too if it had been hooked up.

She came out of her flat and asked, “John, what’s going on?”

John opened his mouth and closed it. He suspected he knew what was going on, but he couldn’t believe it. She was looking at him anxiously and John clenched his fist.

“Jilted lover, I think,” he said.

Mrs Hudson shook her head sadly. “Oh, Sherlock,” she sighed. “This one was such a nice boy. I wish he would settle down. I hate seeing him alone.” She shook her head again, and John thought she was laying it on rather thick. With a last pointed look at John, she retreated to her flat.

“I’m not gay,” John said to the empty foyer.

The thought that Sherlock was, or perhaps he was bisexual, was rattling him. John had thought, after that first dinner (because despite his lying to try to salvage the situation and some pride, he  _ was _ hitting on Sherlock), that Sherlock was asexual.

But, that clearly wasn’t the case. He had said that women weren’t his area… But, he had seemed interested in The Woman… But, he hadn’t contacted her, had he? He hadn’t responded to any of her texts, so she said.

Maybe, John had been projecting. He had liked The Woman until she drugged his friend and it became clear that she had less than zero interest in him. John had simultaneously wanted Sherlock to get off with her (because, dear god, someone should) and dreaded it. They had been perfect for one another, both intelligent, stunning, cunning… Together they would be unstoppable. What more could Sherlock want?

A man, apparently.

John looked in the direction of Sherlock’s room with a furrowed brow. Was it just that Sherlock didn’t want a relationship? Had he been going out for one night stands the entire time John had known him? He certainly disappeared enough. John had thought him a cat, wandering in and out of the flat as he pleased. John hadn’t liked it when Sherlock left—he always worried that Sherlock was off on a dangerous case.

Looking back, it was rather obvious that Sherlock was gay. Mrs Hudson had thought they were an item, Angelo had thought they were on a date, hell, even Mycroft had implied they were headed for marriage. John had been turned down and he was so damn egotistical that he had decided that Sherlock just didn’t feel things that way.

Why hadn’t Sherlock said anything? John had tried to ask so many times in so many ways, but Sherlock had always shut the conversation down.

Did he think that John would have a problem with it? That John would judge him? Think him a slag? It’s not like John could talk. He’d had so many girlfriends he started mixing them up.

Was it that Sherlock thought John would treat him differently if he knew he was gay? Did he know John was bisexual (it had to be obvious to him) and had taken all John’s proclamations that he wasn’t gay and his relationship with his sister as a sign that John was homophobic? John had just said those things because he didn’t want Sherlock to know he was in love with him! Surely that would have been obvious to the genius as well!

Then again, Sherlock just didn’t get some things. He was brilliant, but he had trouble with sentiment. He could understand emotions enough to recognise them and fit them to a motive for murder. He could also tell when someone was hitting on him. But, as much as he could understand that people wanted to get into his bed, he seemingly couldn’t conceive that people actually cared about him as a person.

John had been shattered on the Baskerville case when he’d thought that Sherlock didn’t even consider him a friend. Later, when he had time to think about it without being emotional, John had been sad that Sherlock didn’t think that Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were his friends, too. John had thought that Sherlock didn’t feel things that way until he’d jumped. Once he let Sherlock explain, John understood that Sherlock did care. He’d sent John away to try and protect Mrs Hudson. He’d seen no other option but to fake his suicide to save everyone he cared about except Mycroft, who hadn’t been in danger (and no matter how much they protested and denied this, John knew they cared deeply for one another).

Sherlock honestly thought himself unlovable.

How much had he been teased? Put down, denounced, derided and generally hated no matter how he tried? John was guilty of that, too; Sherlock had introduced him as a friend to someone who had made him miserable and John, trying to be seen as important instead of sycophantic, had corrected Sherlock, saying they were colleagues and essentially proving the wanker’s torments and humiliating his friend.

And now, he was standing, listening to a man who knew Sherlock’s worth having a breakdown on their front step. He had no idea how long he’d been standing there, thinking, while his friend, his best friend, the love of his life, was thinking that John was censuring him and was hiding from rejection in his room.

John was an idiot.

He marched up the stairs and went straight to Sherlock’s room. Without hesitation, he knocked on Sherlock’s door. There was no answer, but John wasn’t expecting one.

“Sherlock? Are you there?” John asked. He didn’t want to have this conversation twice. He wasn’t good at talking about his emotions, and more often than not John had spoken to an empty room, his flatmate having escaped down the fire escape. It was always harder the second time, and usually John had dropped whatever the issue was rather than try to gather the courage to speak again.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but there were sounds loud enough for John to hear coming from the room. He was letting John know he was there.

“It’s ok, you know. That first night, at Angelo’s, I wasn’t lying. It really is all fine. I don’t have a problem with you being gay.” John paused, wondering if Sherlock would respond. The rustling stopped, but Sherlock didn’t speak so John continued. “I’m bisexual, just so you know. I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t gay. And it wasn’t that I was uncomfortable with that part of myself… Not really. I just…” John trailed off. He couldn’t say the rest. If he ever did manage to tell Sherlock how he felt, he wanted to say it to Sherlock’s face, not his door.

There was no verbal response but the rustling was back so John knew Sherlock had heard him.

“I’m going to go get rid of your… friend. I’m sure he’s upsetting Mrs Hudson.” It would have the added benefit of giving Sherlock some space.

When Sherlock didn’t say anything to dissuade John, John nodded to himself and went to tell the interloper off. John knew that he shouldn’t think of the man that way: Sherlock wasn’t interested in John that way. John had always been possessive and as much as he curtailed that part of himself with the women he dated, he wanted this man to sod off and the easiest way to do that was to mark Sherlock as his.

John proceeded to do just that. He hoped that Sherlock had blocked the man’s number and would never find out. If he did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. John could lie and say it was all a sham to get rid of him.

Sherlock was gay, and he’d made it clear at Angelo’s that he wasn’t interested in John. Still, Sherlock had done his damnedest to destroy every one of John’s relationships. And even though it was a bit not good, John would return the favour until he got the courage to tell Sherlock how he felt. It just had to be soon, John wouldn't,  _couldn't,_ stand in the way if Sherlock fell in love.

\----

Figuring that Sherlock wasn’t going to come out of his room until John was gone (he clearly needed some space) John called up Mike and went to their local for a pint.

They were halfway through their first when Mike got to John. He wasn’t asking what had John so worked up, he knew better; his tactic (which  _ always _ worked, to John’s dismay) was to wait and stare.

“He’s gay,” John said.

Mike didn’t need to ask who John was talking about. His expression said it all, but he spoke anyway. “Thought it was obvious, mate.”

“He never said anything! I tried to ask, but he just… never said.”

Instead of replying, Mike just took a drink. Which made it worse.

“A man came to the flat today. Wanted a relationship with him. You should have seen him, Mike. I couldn’t tell if he was more rankled or mortified.”

Mike took another sip of his beer.

“The question is, why the mortification? Do I come across as homophobic?”

“Not to me, but I knew you when we shared a dorm. I saw more men come out of your room than women.” He hesitated before asking, “Have you dated a man since you came back?”

“No, God, no. I couldn’t do that. I hit on him, you know, when we first met. He turned me down. And you know I have a type. I didn’t want him thinking…”

John’s eyes widened and he gaped at Mike. “You knew! You weren’t just setting us up as flatmates, were you?”

Mike looked away and finished the last of his beer, but not before John saw him smile.

“What?” John demanded hotly. This wasn’t something to smile about! John had a type, the man who left the flat had been blond, and Mike knew Sherlock, probably enough to know that Sherlock had a type. Mike had set them up thinking they’d be more than friends. And, now, John tells him that Sherlock rejected him, and Mike didn’t seem at all sympathetic. It was like he knew something John didn’t.

“What?” John pushed. If Mike thought John still had a chance, he needed to know.

“I think you should be talking to him about this, mate.” Mike stood and left John there with a half-empty mug and his thoughts.

\----

His therapist knew, of course. She tried to get John to admit it when John was mourning. John wouldn’t tell her. He thought he’d take it to his grave. But, then Sherlock was back. He was alive and well and looked more fit and well-fed than John had ever seen him.

And John was elated. And livid.

And John had wanted to tell him. And he’d wanted to kill him.

And, in the end, John just moved back to Baker Street and pretended that nothing had happened.

It wasn’t the same, of course it wasn’t. John had new nightmares. He saw Sherlock falling. He saw Sherlock bleeding. He saw Sherlock dead on the pavement. He saw Sherlock drowned in the pool. He saw Sherlock blown to pieces and crushed by a building. He saw Sherlock dying in Afghanistan and there was never anything John could do to save him and there was always so much blood. And those eyes were always the same no matter the setting, sky blue and unseeing.

Despite Sherlock being back, John still had those nightmares. And he never felt whole until he set eyes on Sherlock moving, breathing, observing.

If Sherlock knew, he never said.

They went back on cases, and Sherlock went back to disappearing.

There was a moment, when Sherlock returned, that John thought Sherlock was going to tell him something. John thought it might have been a love confession. But, he’d ruined the moment in his anger and Sherlock never tried again. If he’d been trying in the first place. Which, John figured, was entirely wishful thinking.

But, Mike had smiled. John had done everything except outright confess his love for Sherlock to Mike, and told him that Sherlock didn’t return those feelings, and Mike had smiled. Mike. The most romantic man John had ever met. Hell, he was the most romantic  _ person _ John knew. Mike wouldn’t take joy in John’s pain, and he’d never smile at unrequited love.

John had been in love with Sherlock Holmes for a long time. Years. And when John thought he was dead the only thing he could think of was that he should have said. He’d have regretted it the rest of his life. He’d thought he’d missed his chance. That, even though Sherlock wouldn’t return his feelings, he’d never know how John felt. Even though it might have been awkward between them, at least Sherlock would have known, and maybe he wouldn’t have jumped. Even if he had, at least he would have died knowing that John loved him.

Every day, every damned day Sherlock was gone, John thought about it. Sometimes he’d lie in bed and picture it, Sherlock miraculously coming back from the dead (if anyone could manage that, it’d be Sherlock), and John would grab him and kiss him and confess and they’d live happily ever after. Sometimes he told Sherlock and Sherlock told John he was flattered but he wasn’t interested, he was asexual, and John wouldn’t care, he’d love Sherlock in whatever way he could. Even if it was just as a friend. Sometimes, in those fantasies, Sherlock would allow cuddles. He’d lie across John’s lap and let John run his fingers through those curls as he shouted at the telly.

Sometimes, John would just look at the black headstone and clench his fist and his jaw and he wanted to just sit down and tell Sherlock’s body that he was loved, that somehow the man’s spirit would hear him and know. John never did, though. It wouldn’t be the same and it didn’t matter anyway, Sherlock was dead. It didn’t matter that John loved him. John would stare at the gold letters and imagine Sherlock tapping him on the shoulder. He’d welcome John’s embrace and John would hold him, hold him and hold back tears and hear his heartbeat, smell his cologne and Sherlock would wrap his arms around John and rest his chin on John’s head and run his hand up and down John’s back to soothe him. Sometimes John would kiss him, sometimes not, just confessing his feelings.

No matter how John pictured their reunion, he always,  _ always, _ let Sherlock know that he loved him.

And now Sherlock was back, and John never said.

Being a consulting detective was dangerous. Sherlock could die, for real, at any moment. And John would have to forever live with the knowledge that he’d had another chance and he’d squandered it.

It was shameful, his cowardice. He’d been a soldier, he faced death more times than he could count on the foreign and domestic battlefield. He’d told his first girlfriend he loved her after a week. He’d been with Sherlock for years and he couldn’t even rest his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder without butterflies in his stomach.

He’d been in love before—he was nearing forty, of course he had—but, it had never been like this.

Sherlock was brilliant and amazing and exciting and stylish and gorgeous and so far out of John’s league it was laughable. And before John knew Sherlock he’d still tried because, damnit, how could he not? And the more he got to know the man the more he fell for him and eventually John was so mad for him he couldn’t try again, because what if he lost him?

John took a sip of his beer and winced. It’d gone flat. How long had he been sitting here? Too long. Far too long. He shouldn’t be sitting here brooding while the man he loved was holed up in his room, thinking that John despised him. That John was even capable of feeling anything other than adoration for him.

He knew what he had to do, and he was a fool for not doing it sooner. He was bolstered by his talk with Mike, and he had to get home. He had a mission. It was terrifying and potentially a disaster. He might ruin what he had with Sherlock now. But there was a chance that Sherlock might feel the same way.

John had prayed for two things in his life, not to die and to get Sherlock back. He got the first and had regretted it until he met Sherlock. Now that he had the second, he wasn’t going to do anything that might make him regret that.


	2. Chapter 2

John looked at the black door and squared his shoulders. It was time.

He climbed the steps with purpose. Sherlock was holding his violin and standing by the window. Probably watching the street for John’s return. Or, maybe he was just emotional and needed to play. It was impossible for John to tell. Sherlock had turned at John’s arrival and looked at him warily. When John strode across the room to him, Sherlock set his violin down.

“John, I—”

John didn’t allow him to finish that sentence. Whatever he said might deter or distract John, and John wasn’t going to wait a second longer. “I love you.”

Sherlock looked stunned, and John took the expression as a good sign. Since he didn’t look repulsed or embarrassed, John continued, “I know you’re married to your work. I don’t know if you said that because you’re not interested in me, or if you’re just not interested in a relationship. Either way, it doesn’t matter. While you were dead, my biggest regret was that you didn’t know, that you’d never know. Nothing has to change between us. I—”

He didn’t know what he was going to say next; he’d just been rambling. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, because Sherlock stepped forward, took John in his arms, tilted his head and kissed him. It was sweet, chaste, just a peck, then it was gone. Sherlock pulled back to deduce how the action had been received before diving back in.

It took John a moment to process Sherlock’s lips against his own. He’d hoped for this outcome, but he hadn’t really believed it would happen.

Sherlock licked at the seam of John’s lips and John groaned. He opened his mouth and wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s neck to pull him closer. His other hand grabbed Sherlock’s lapel and pulled.

John walked backward, pulling Sherlock. Their kissing became sloppy, the movement making it hard to maintain proper contact. It didn’t bother John, and Sherlock seemed fine with it until John pushed him back into his chair.

This was getting out of hand. He thought that maybe he should stop, that they should take it slow. Have some time to process their new relationship before having sex. He stood over Sherlock, looking at the tent in Sherlock’s trousers, his flushed cheeks, his dark eyes, his swollen and moist lips.

The thoughts of stopping disappeared as the blood left John’s head, his body deciding it was urgently needed elsewhere.

John sat in Sherlock’s lap, straddling his legs while he recaptured his lips.

\----

Sherlock hadn’t said it back, but John didn’t need him to. It was obvious, if not from the reverence in Sherlock’s expression and touches, but from the way he held him when they were sated. John had always pictured himself as the big spoon, as he’d always been in his previous relationships. But Sherlock had nudged him, and John had rolled to his side without hesitation. John rested his head on Sherlock’s arm as Sherlock pressed himself as close to John as he could. John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat in his back and the ebb and flow of his lungs as Sherlock breathed. Sherlock’s legs pressed against the backs of John’s. Sherlock’s knees touching the inside of John’s. John could feel Sherlock’s lips as they pressed kisses to his hair.

But none of that was as intimate as Sherlock’s other arm. He’d taken John’s hand and interlaced their fingers, his larger hand covering John’s smaller. He pulled their hands to John’s chest and pressed against John’s breastbone. John could feel his heartbeat and knew Sherlock could feel it as well. It was probably only through the backs of his long fingers but, John’s heart was so full, beating so vehemently with the tenderness of the moment, that John thought Sherlock might just be able to feel it in his palm.

Sherlock nuzzled his nose against John’s crown and pressed his forehead to the back of John’s head. John figured Sherlock’s arm would fall asleep and they’d separate, perhaps allowing a moment for John to hold Sherlock, but Sherlock’s breathing evened out and his arm slowly went slack. Sherlock’s fingers stayed twined with John’s, but only just. John thought he should probably scoot away to save Sherlock pain in the morning. Even though he was loathe to do so, he lifted his head and moved to slide to the side of the bed.

With a noise of displeasure, Sherlock brought his arm back to John’s chest, tightening his grip and pressing his whole body against John’s briefly. Just long enough to make it clear that John wasn’t to go anywhere.

With a small smile, John shifted just enough to get comfortable.

“SHERLOCK!” John shouted, his throat instantly sore with the force of his exclamation.

But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Sherlock was falling. He was speeding to the hard pavement. John knew Sherlock wouldn’t escape unscathed. Maybe, _maybe,_ if he was lucky he’d live. He’d have to. He couldn’t die. It wasn’t possible. He was too smart, too remarkable. He was an unappreciated hero, and heroes don’t die.

He was knocked to the side and his head rang and throbbed. It didn’t matter. He was a doctor, he could get there and save his friend. It wasn’t too late. He had to help. He had to save Sherlock from himself.

John pushed against the crowd of people, trying to get through. “He’s my friend,” John said, even though it was nonsense. It wasn’t relevant, it wouldn’t convince them to let him through. It mattered, though. It was important. They wouldn’t understand. They were idiots. They wouldn’t let him through and he needed—

Oh, God! There was blood. So much blood. It was coming from his head. His head. Oh, God, that brain, that beautiful brain… John reached out; he could see the light fading from his friend’s eyes. John could save him, he just needed to get through.

The people holding him back were suddenly pressing forward. They had cameras and microphones, vultures descending, making a spectacle of his friend, pulling out his organs, dragging him through the dirt and mud. Sherlock was sinking and John was trying to hold the monsters back.

“John.”

He couldn’t do it! He couldn’t hold them back and get to Sherlock. It started raining, washing the blood down the street. God, there was so much blood.

“John!”

People were surrounding John again, holding him as he sunk to his knees. He was too late, Sherlock was dead. If he had been smarter, faster, better, maybe he would have been able to do something. Now all he had was a phone call. He’d spoken to Sherlock. He’d had a chance. But he was too slow, too stupid. He didn’t know how to talk his friend off the ledge and now Sherlock had sunk into the mud completely, a black slab of rock marking the grave. Not white, not grey, black. Because he’d died a pariah, a monster to the public, even though the real monsters sat at desks, writing headlines and collecting paycheques.

“John!”

The hands were on him again, pushing and pulling on him. He didn’t care, it didn’t matter. They picked at his bones, and the only thing that held him together was the knowledge that, if he died now, there wouldn’t be anyone to defend his friend.

They scratched and bit and tried to dig into the dirt. John wouldn’t let them. He laid himself down over the mud and felt himself start sinking too.

Sherlock’s scent was everywhere. It was his hands pulling John down. Wanting John to join him. To come where he was and have adventures in the afterlife.

“JOHN!” Sherlock’s turn to shout, this time.

John spread his arms and stepped forward off the ledge. Sherlock was down on the pavement. He’d catch him and they’d be together.

But the monsters could fly. They snatched him out of the air and pulled his body apart.

John woke with a start, fighting the shadowy monster above him.

“It’s a nightmare, you’re fine,” Sherlock’s repeated words sank in, after allowing John to pin him to the bed.

Swallowing bile, John tried to even out his breathing.

Sherlock was alive, pale, silvery and otherworldly below him. His clear colourless eyes were staring into John’s, reflecting the dim light from the streetlamps outside. He had his long fingers wrapped around John’s wrists, holding him back and keeping him close simultaneously. The corners of his mouth were turned down and his brows were furrowed in worry.

“Shit,” John said, realizing that he’d attacked his lover. He crawled off Sherlock quickly, down and away to the foot of the bed. He turned away, swinging his legs off and pressing his bare feet to the cool floor. He held his head in his hands, horrified at his actions.

It was clear now: Sherlock holding him during the night made him feel trapped and brought back the memories.

He pulled himself together. He didn’t get to have a breakdown. He’d probably hurt Sherlock.

“Sorry,” John said, and with a shake to clear his head he stood, walking to the door that connected to the loo, turning on the light on the way. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Of course. Are you—?”

John gave a short nod and left before Sherlock could finish his question. Of course he wasn’t! How could he be? How could he share a bed with Sherlock, with anyone, when he had nightmares? It would be one thing if he didn’t lash out when he woke, but he did. If he hadn’t already hurt Sherlock—and John was fairly certain he had—he would eventually. It was inevitable.

He splashed some water on his face and looked in the mirror. He looked haggard. Stressed and exhausted and scared. This wasn’t the face of a man who’d just had amazing sex with his soulmate. This was the face of a broken man who hurt those he loved.

There was a knock on the door, and John could see Sherlock through the glass.

“John? Come back to bed.”

John pursed his lips. He couldn’t. He’d ruin it. Sherlock might put up with his PTSD for a while, but eventually John would go too far. Even if Sherlock stayed through it, John would have to look at the bruises and live with the knowledge that he’d done that.

“John,” Sherlock demanded.

Maybe he was overreacting. Sure, he’d lashed out, but Sherlock sounded fine. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Maybe he’d just held Sherlock down, and hadn’t hit him like he’d thought.

He opened the door and looked for bruises on Sherlock’s naked body.

There weren’t any. At least not yet.

Reading his expression Sherlock said, “I’m fine. Come back to bed.”

“Maybe I should sleep upstairs.”

“No,” Sherlock said imperiously and sauntered back to the bed. He leaned over unnecessarily, and John smiled at his cheek. After sliding between the sheets, Sherlock patted the space next to him.

John dithered a bit, appreciating Sherlock’s normality but still afraid of himself, before turning off the light and settling next to Sherlock. If he left now, Sherlock would be distressed. John wasn’t going to lash out physically and then hurt him emotionally.

The images from John’s dreams flashed every time he closed his eyes. He tried not to move so he wouldn’t disturb Sherlock’s rest as he avoided sleep.

“John,” Sherlock huffed and rolled to face him. “Stop.”

“It’s not… I’m not… It’s just…” John ground his teeth in frustration. He twisted his fist around the sheet.

Sherlock scooted closer but didn’t touch him. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s really not,” John said with a dark chuckle.

Making a noise of disagreement, Sherlock slowly and gently took John’s hand, stroking the top and causing John’s fist to relax. “I hurt you,” he said.

“I hurt _you,”_ John argued.

“No, I hurt you when I left. There were bound to be consequences. If the worst is that I have to be careful when I wake you from nightmares... Well,” Sherlock paused, his hand tightening around John’s, “it’s worth it to share your bed.”

John looked over and saw that Sherlock had turned to his back while he was talking, and was looking up at the ceiling. He was so uncomfortable with emotions. It made John melt a little to see how Sherlock cared.

“Unless you don’t want to. I understand, if you don’t. If I’m making the nightmares worse—”

“Shh.” John didn’t want Sherlock to be insecure. He wasn’t going anywhere, ever. He had everything he ever wanted. Much more than he ever thought he would. As grand as it was to stand in Sherlock’s shadow and laugh over Chinese, John always wanted more.

John scooted across the bed, and with gentle touches rolled Sherlock over. John slid one arm under Sherlock’s neck, and the other he set on his waist. John kissed Sherlock’s spine, just at the base of his neck.

Sherlock laced their fingers again and pulled John’s hand up before letting it go over his heart. John felt the strong steady rhythm, could feel Sherlock’s lungs expand under his hand and against his chest.

Them embarking on a relationship was unwise, dangerous, it had the potential to destroy them both.

“This is a horrible idea,” John said, his voice slightly muffled from where his face was pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock’s whole body stiffened at John’s words.

John pressed himself closer to Sherlock, going so far as to tangle their legs together. It was a little awkward, with their height differences and John’s position, but they found a way to make it comfortable.

With that, Sherlock relaxed.

“You worry too much,” he said.

“You don’t worry enough,” John countered.

“It is dangerous,” Sherlock conceded.

“And yet, here I am,” John said with a smile.

Sherlock chuckled.

“Don’t leave,” John said once the moment had passed.

Sherlock turned his head and kissed John’s arm. “Never. Never again.”

When Sherlock’s breathing evened out, John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s sparse chest hair.

John was lucky. He was the luckiest man in the universe. He hadn’t died in Afghanistan and he’d found Sherlock Holmes. And when he thought he’d missed his chance, that he’d lost his best friend and the love of his life, Sherlock came back. And, if that wasn’t a big enough miracle, Sherlock hadn’t scorned John when he confessed his love, he’d kissed him. Then, somehow, they’d gotten here, with Sherlock sleeping peacefully in John’s arms.

Marvelling at how he’d managed something so many people sought but never found, John peppered Sherlock’s back with kisses. True love. They were completely devoted to one another. No matter what happened, John always sought out Sherlock, and Sherlock always came back to John.

Sherlock would say it was sentimental nonsense, but John couldn’t help but think it was fate. They were meant for each other.

John burrowed his face into Sherlock’s back and let out a happy sigh.

His arm was numb, he’d been shot. But he wasn’t in any real pain. The sun was beating down and John’s pack was heavy. He could see Sherlock in front of him. The idiot was standing up, wearing that heavy coat in the stifling heat. He was using binoculars, trying to find the sniper.

“Stay down, you idiot, you’ve been shot,” Sherlock snarled at John’s advancing form.

John wanted to tell him that he wasn’t in danger, that it was Sherlock, making himself the largest and most obvious target in the world, that was going to be killed. He couldn’t get the words out in time. The shot rang out and Sherlock fell from the rock, tumbling down and landing in a heap.

Blood stained where Sherlock had fallen and John started sinking, the sand impeding his progress. He needed to get there. He couldn’t let Sherlock die. Not now.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave, you dick,” John shouted at him. He threw off his pack and made it over to the menace through sheer force of will.

Sherlock sat up when John touched him. “I’m fine, John.”

The surprise that he’d made it over and that Sherlock wasn’t dead didn’t last. He’d seen the blood.

It seemed Sherlock could deduce his thoughts. He said, “Look, just a scratch. I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

John threw himself over Sherlock and held him. He was partly protecting the idiot from further sniper fire, but mostly he was so grateful that Sherlock was alive to hold that he couldn’t make himself let go.

“John,” Sherlock wheezed. “You’re crushing me.”

Blinking awake, John looked at Sherlock below him. “Oh, sorry.”

Before John could castigate himself too much, Sherlock rested his hand against the back of John’s neck, rubbing gently. “I wasn’t complaining,” he said with a filthy smirk and a pointed drag of his hips.

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, giggles interrupting the kiss and keeping it chaste. John sat up on Sherlock’s hips, wanting some space but not wanting Sherlock to get away at the same time.

“I’m a mess,” he said. “I think we need to stop falling asleep while cuddling.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said airily. “I quite like the results, as long as you’re the big spoon.” He tried to lift his hips again. He couldn’t, but the attempt made his point clearly.

“You’re a madman,” John said, smiling down.

“I’m your madman.”

“Don’t you forget it,” John growled playfully, and went back down for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. You can find me on Twitter [@GizmoTrinket221](https://twitter.com/GizmoTrinket221) and on Tumblr [@TheArtOne](https://theartone.tumblr.com/)


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